Truth or Dare
by Heiress7Muzzy
Summary: The Dark Lord holds regular Truth or Dare Death Eater meetings. Draco Malfoy is given a dare.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Truth or Dare

**Disclaimer: **This story is based entirely on the story J.K. Rowling has written. She owns all of the characters, ideas, credit and copyright. This story is made simply for enjoyment and no money is being made from this. No offence intended. No copyright infringement intended.

**Warnings: **Eventual slash, angst, violence

**Pairings: **Eventual Harry/Draco

**Summary: **The Dark Lord holds regular Truth or Dare Death Eater meetngs. Draco Malfoy is given a dare.

**Author's Note: **I am very new to writing fanfiction, and constructive criticism and suggestions are welcome. I have quite a few stories I'm working on, most of them Drarry-related. If you're a Drarry shipper, take the time to check out some of my other works and tell me what you think. The next chapter of this will be up shortly.

**Chapter 1**

"Macnair, truth or dare?" the silky voice of the Dark Lord hissed from the dark shadows coalescing him at the head of the table, where he sat with Nagini wrapped around his thin shoulders in a remarkably similar fashion to a scarf.

"Tru – truth, my Lord," the victim a few seats down the table mumbled, keeping his head bowed, not daring to meet the red serpentine slits of his master.

The table was dark mahogany, polished to the point that it gleamed, even in the poor lighting of no more than a few braziers blazing on torches along the walls of the cavernous room. About two dozen, most of them Death Eaters, were seated around the table, with the Dark Lord at the head.

An interesting game of Truth or Dare was being played, with the stakes higher than they would be had this been a game played between regular teenagers. They did this once every two weeks, and it was a ritual dreaded and feared by all, with the exception of one Lord Voldemort, who found these games riveting and captivating.

The option of 'truth' was normally less painful. You had only to answer a simple question of the Dark Lord's choice, but should you even attempt to lie, the consequences would be much worse than a mere Cruciatus.

Only precious few dared risk the gamble of opting for 'dare', and this was usually done out of fear of discovery of some secret or other, or the victim in question had had a few pints too many. The results of choosing 'dare' was more often than not tasks the Dark Lord wanted accomplished, and they almost always had something to do with the capture and subsequent execution of one Harry Potter.

"How disappointing," the Dark Lord mused, stroking Nagini's head languidly with one long, pale finger. "But it is to be expected. Tell me, Macnair, what have you been doing in addition to your job at the Ministry as an executioner of dangerous creatures?"

From the malicious glint in that could be seen radiating from the Dark Lord's eyes even in the dim lighting, as well as the uncontrollable trembling of Macnair, you could tell whatever it was, it wasn't good.

"I work as a plumber in a Muggle company on weekends," came the almost inaudible confession.

This pronouncement was met with an explosive response as, all around the table, Death Eaters either howled in derisive laughter, blinked dumbly in confusion, or hissed in outrage.

"Perhaps you would like to explain the definition of 'plumber', Macnair?" Voldemort said softly, his voice carrying around the room nonetheless.

"Someone who – someone who fixes toilets," said Macnair, voice barely more than a whisper, as he studiously avoided the piercing gaze of the Dark Lord.

This time there was a collective gasp as, all around the table, Death Eaters began shouting obscenities at Macnair for daring to associate with, work for and be ordered by scum like Muggles, and with such a lowly profession as well.

"You will not work there another day, do I make myself clear?" The Dark Lord did not sound threatening, in fact, he sounded quite pleasant, if not for the fact that those two snake-like eyes were narrowed and glaring, and there was an almost tangible presence of menace in the air.

Macnair gulped. "Yes, my Lord."

"Good," Voldemort smiled, a thin curling of his barely existent lips. "Moving on…." He scanned the table, picking out his next possible victim. After a seemingly endless, unendurable wait, his voice rang out –

"Bella, truth or dare?"

The witch's eyes were almost burning with excitement. The years she had spent in Azkaban had certainly not been kind to her mental state, though she was still in better shape than most other prisoners there. "Truth, my lord," she said, voice hoarse with anticipation.

"Very well," the Dark Lord acquiesced, dipping his head once in acknowledgement. "What kept you mentally stable whilst in Azkaban?"

With not even a moment's hesitation, she said, "You, my Lord. I thought of nothing but the great honor of serving you, of being by your side."

"Interesting," Voldemort murmured, his scarlet gaze boring into Bellatrix's own, searching for even a modicum of untruth. Apparently satisfied, he set about locating his next victim.

"Draco." The word was barely out of Voldemort's mouth when the tension in the room visibly increased, as all Death Eaters turned varying degrees of stares on the young Malfoy. They ranged from sympathetic glances to uncertain stares to malicious glowers to furious glares.

Everyone knew of the state the Malfoy name was in. Ever since Lucius' failure at retrieving the prophecy at the Ministry of Magic a year ago, he had been sent to Azkaban, while Narcissa had been forced into exile due to affiliation with the inner circle of Death Eaters, leaving their son in alone in Britain.

The Malfoys had also lost everyone to their name, including their money, property and social acceptance. The Ministry had made sure they would be so broke they wouldn't be able to get back on first rung of the social ladder, let alone resume their original position.

And so Draco Malfoy had taken after his father's footsteps and joined the Death Eaters, hoping to one day exact revenge on the Ministry for the downfall of the Malfoy name and his torn family.

"Truth or dare?" Voldemort asked quietly, his hand stilling on Nagini's head as he gazed at the petrified teenager sitting seven seats down the table.

"Truth, my Lord," came the cracked whisper, as Draco raised his eyes to look into those of the Dark Lord's, fear and reluctance written all over his pale features.

"What would you do if I insisted you pick dare instead?"

A tense silence ensued, during which Draco did his best to hide his inner turmoil. How was one supposed to answer that? If he obeyed and picked dare instead, he would almost certainly be assigned a suicide mission. If he answered as he saw fit, he would also be punished. So, what to do, what to do…

Averting his eyes from Voldemort's, he forced out words that could scarcely be heard over the crackling of flames in the burning braziers, "Was that a trick question, my Lord?" _Shit._ As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to slap himself. What had made him say that? Whatever his intended punishment had been, it had just gotten a lot worse, and that was the mildest way of putting it.

There was a collective intake of breath around the table as Death Eaters gaped open-mouthed at him. No one questioned the Dark Lord, unless they had a death wish. Draco felt dread pooling in his stomach at the look Voldemort was giving him, and would have bolted for the door if fear had not kept him paralyzed in his chair.

"In answer to your question, no, Draco, that was not," said Voldemort, rising from his chair and gliding swiftly and silently over to where he sat, knees locked together to keep them from trembling. "A dare it is, then."

Malevolent scarlet slits met terrified grey eyes, before the Dark Lord rested a pale hand on Draco's shoulder. "Come, Draco," he said in a tone that was not unkind, but which fooled no one, "We must settle the details of your dare."

Mustering every ounce of measly Slytherin courage he had in him, Draco got up and made it to the exit without passing out. The Dark Lord turned and led him into an adjoining chamber, where the room was bare, save for a single brazier on the far wall.

Closing and locking the door with a wave of his hand, Voldemort turned to face Draco, who cringed inwardly and fought the urge to run.

"No one talks back to Lord Voldemort, Draco, I trust you know that," Voldemort began, pacing in a circle around him. "That was very disobedient of you, and disobedience by any of my followers means punishment."

It was all Draco could do to refrain from making a break for it, as the Dark Lord continued pacing and talking, "You are familiar with the workings of the Cruciatus Curse, I presume?"

At his almost imperceptible nod, Voldemort went on, "And you know the theory behind it, the magic involved? Ah yes, you would, having been under it yourself on multiple occasions, am I correct?"

He nodded again, a painful jerk of his head, while he waited with growing dread for his verdict.

"You do know how to cast it, do you not?" came the query.

He gave another nod that probably looked like a muscle spasm, though he felt as though he weren't far from having one, at any rate.

"Good. Here is what I want you to do, Draco, I want you to cast the Cruciatus Curse on yourself. Can you do that for me?"

_Fuck._ Draco wasn't sure what his face showed, but it must have been pretty hilarious or utterly horrified, because the Dark Lord actually laughed in amusement.

"Come now, Draco, you surely didn't expect to cast the spell on me, now did you?" he asked, still laughing that unnatural high, cold laugh of his. "Hurry up then, we haven't got all day."

With trepidation, Draco slid his wand out and concentrated on stilling his trembling hand. He attempted to channel all his hatred into the single word needed for the incantation; his hatred for the Ministry, his contempt for Muggleborns and Mudbloods, his detestation for Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, his loathing for the Weasleys, Granger, and Potter. Potter. He hated Potter, hated him with every fiber of his being, hated the way he dressed like a plebeian, hated the way his hair stuck up all over the place, hated the way he bested Draco at Quidditch, hated the way he had rejected his offer of friendship, rejected _him_.

"_Crucio._"

Pain flared as a scream ripped its way out of his lungs. His vision exploded as white-hot knives pierced every inch of his skin, tearing at his flesh, ripping out his very soul. Agonized screams were reverberating all around him, and the pounding in his head was unendurable. He would take anything over this, he wished it would just end, that it would all black out, and leave him to die in peace.

And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Draco had collapsed on the floor, and he now picked himself up, wincing, quite unable to stop the shaking tremors wracking his body. He had a feeling his voice would be hoarse for the next few days.

"Very good, Draco," said Voldemort, looking slightly impressed. "Not many people can do that on the first try, they don't normally have that much hate inside them to accomplish that. Poor Lucius had to do it sixteen times before he managed the Cruciatus on himself."

At the mention of his father, Draco's jaw tightened and he stiffened. Pretending not to notice, the Dark Lord continued, "Do tell me, Draco, what were you thinking about as you cast the spell?"

"Potter." Even though his voice was hoarse from screaming, the name was spat out like a blasphemy, and there was unconcealed venom lacing it.

"So I see," Voldemort mused, "You really do hate him, don't you?"

Draco's only response to that was to give a tight nod.

"In that case, I have just the perfect dare for you, Draco," the Dark Lord said, a hint of malicious triumph gleaming in his red eyes, "I want you to bring me Harry Potter so I can kill him. Since you hate him so much, this is the perfect chance for you to exact your revenge. I trust you will not fail? I do not take kindly to failures, Draco, remember that. Fail and you will suffer."

"I won't fail you, my Lord," Draco said hoarsely, still trembling from the aftermath of the Cruciatus.

"Excellent. There is no need for you to continue with the game any longer, Draco, you may leave now," here Voldemort paused, before adding, "Remember, it all comes down to whether you want Potter to be killed, or whether you wanted to be killed."

"I understand, my Lord." Draco bowed once and walked out the door.

So it all came down to this.

Truth or Dare.

Him or Potter.

TO BE CONTINUED…


	2. Chapter 2

Disapparating as soon as he was out of the wards surrounding the Dark Lord's headquarters, Draco appeared in his flat a few seconds later. The first thing he did was to take a shower, and mull things over in the hot water.

Standing under the warm spray, he felt incredibly worn and exhausted, his muscles ached like hell, and he had just been given a dare to kidnap the Boy Who Sodding Lived by the Dark Lord. He should have known this was going to happen sooner or later.

The Dark Lord despised him, after the failure of his father a year back, and his mother hadn't exactly been his favorite either. In fact, Draco suspected the only reason he had been accepted into the Death Eater fold was so he could be punished properly for his father's misdoings.

So now he would have to find Potter, capture him and bring him to his master so he could be killed, or he would be the one dead. _Just what I need right now, a suicide mission, _he thought bitterly to himself.

Although he disagreed with the Dark Lord on a number of things, he hadn't once regretted his decision in becoming a Death Eater, until now. The only thing that kept him going now was the prospect of seeing the Ministry fall, and finally getting the revenge for his father he wanted.

Turning off the water, he reached for a towel, then promptly dropped it as pain shot up his arm, flaring up in his shoulder and causing him to collapse on the floor. "Ow, fuck!" he burst out. Biting his lip to keep from yelling so hard that it was bleeding, Draco made it to the mirror and turned, trying to see where the pain was coming from.

He gasped. There, on the spot where the Dark Lord had rested a hand on his right shoulder earlier, was a bold tattoo of an intricate letter 'L' with a wreath of bones surrounding it. As the pain ebbed slowly to a dull throb, Draco snaked a hand up his back to feel it. At once the pain ignited once more, this time returning in even worse intensity.

Draco knew what it was, and the thought made him feel sick. He had seen it on other Death Eaters, but only ever on traitors, those who had given information to the Ministryto stay out of Azkaban, Death Eaters who deserved to live life as a living hell in the Dark Lord's eyes.

And now he had been given one, a 'Liberator', it was called. It prevented the person from breathing a word about the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, and it was about the most degrading humiliation a Death Eater could receive, to be labeled as someone who might betray the others, and had to be controlled.

If there had been any indication that the Dark Lord had only been keeping him around for slaughter, this was proof enough. Giving him the impossible task of bringing Potter before him, then branding him with a Liberator, just showed the lack of trust and contempt Voldemort had towards him.

Draco supposed he had been branded when the Dark Lord had touched him, but the spell had probably taken time to activate. Now he was officially a branded would-be traitor of the Dark Lord's followers.

With a sigh of defeat, he gritted his teeth and waited until the pain subsided once more. Flinging on some random Muggle clothes, he headed out towards his favorite refuge nowadays – the Impervious Cauldron. Ironically enough, this pub was situated across the street from the Leaky Cauldron, and the two shops were rivals when it came to business.

Draco wasn't sure why he preferred the Impervious to the Leaky, maybe it was simply the name of the place? Surely something impermeable would be better off than something with flaws? Whatever the reason, this was where he normally went to whenever he needed to get drunk, and tonight was no exception.

"Good evening, Mr Malfoy," the bartender greeted, though his smile didn't meet his eyes. Of the people that currently hated the Malfoy family name, the bartender was probably one of the friendliest. At least he gave Draco alcohol when he wasn't to come of age until another two months or so.

"Evening, my usual, please," he muttered, sliding into a dark corner booth. When the bartender gave him the drink, he downed it in one and thrust it back before the man had even taken two steps.

"I'll get you more than one, shall I?"

Draco only nodded mutely in response, turning glazed eyes onto the man, as the alcohol kicked into his system.

When the Impervious Cauldron was finally closing for the night, and Draco had had far more than enough to drink, he stumbled back towards his flat and did the one thing that made sense. He collapsed on the bed and passed out.

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Morning light filtered in through a crack in the curtains, rousing Draco from a fitful sleep, plagued with dreams of Dark Lords and Potters and hippos in tutus. Not necessarily in that order.

Groaning, he opened his eyes, and promptly shut them again. Merlin, but his head hurt. He wondered just how drunk he'd been last night. Even with his eyes shut he could feel the searing heat of sunlight on his face, and it wasn't doing his hangover any favors either.

With a resigned sigh, he eased himself up and hobbled over to the bathroom, where the first thing he did was gulp whatever was left of his hangover potion down. The pounding in his temple lessen noticeably, and that helped clear his head somewhat.

After a hasty breakfast, Draco set about putting his plan of capturing Potter into action. The first step to it was for him to come up with a plan, of course.

One smashed ink bottle, two broken quills, three crumpled parchments, and four bottles of some Muggle drink called BullyRed or BullWinkle later, he was forced to admit he was stumped. He had no fucking clue how the hell he was supposed to find and capture the green-eyed git, least of all bring him back to the Dark Lord.

Deciding to leave the matter for when he had less of a hangover and more of an actual plan, Draco headed towards Muggle London in hopes of buying more of that excellent RedBully drink (he was running out).

He was walking down a side alley when he heard the voice, loud and clear.

"…that blasted Potter boy and his bloody bird, making a racket when decent people are trying to sleep!" a decidedly male and pissed-off voice complained loudly.

A minute later the speaker came into view, passing by the alley Draco was in. He was a large male with an impressive moustache, with a skinny horse-faced woman who was presumably his wife on his arm, and an overweight son in tow.

They passed by Draco's hiding place and continued on their way, and he, after only a second's hesitation, followed them.

TO BE CONTINUED…

A/N: So this chapter's a bit of an interlude while I try to work out the rest of the plot ;) Reviews are always welcome (:


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